Daydreams in Technicolour

Arthur glared spitefully up at the sun, infuriating ball of simmering fires that it was. For once, just once, couldn't it stop taunting him from its haughty throne high in the heavens? For just the slightest, shortest, instant, for just the time it'd take to let out a breath of relief, couldn't it give him a moment's peace to rest his soul?

An ungraceful snort on his part – of course it couldn't.

It was yellow.

Everything was yellow.

Well, everything that wasn't black, white, or whatever melee of greys stood in-between, that is. How lucky, he thought, that in a world whose colours were drained and sucked up and painfully ripped away from the threads of the canvas with the cruel artistry that only some omnipotent painter could achieve, he had to be stuck in the one that only remained with yellow. That, of course, was sarcasm and another loud, ungentlemanly scoff filled with disdain accompanied his thoughts; at this point, with all his dry remarks to himself, people would start wondering who this stranger in the streets was, sneering so privately to himself.

He supposed he should have listened to his mother, really, when she had told his little ten year old self to stop being ungrateful and instead appreciate the fact that there was at least one colour left. He had never understood her. She'd wade about outside in the streaming rays of sunlight, letting them bathe her in the one colour that they'd ever see, making her shimmer like the source of light itself while her son would brood quietly inside, letting the black and white and altogether colourless shadows envelop him comfortably like a big cold hand.

His fiancée was like that too; she'd also run around in the garden, tending to her little moon-grey flowers while a wind would sweep up her dark chalky skirts. But then the clouds would clear and up would rise the sun, driving him back inside the house and to his study while she would let the rays' warm fingertips slide across her pretty cheeks like a flirting schoolboy's.

Shameless.

At a certain point, though, he couldn't blame other people. Yellow was yellow, and it was there to stay; it's not like they could do a thing about it. But it was the way they'd try and bring it out that unleashed demons in him. It was the jovial daffodils and bright sunflowers and flamboyant roses that people would plant outside their windows; the brilliant golden lights inside of every kitchen, living room, and bedroom (except his, he'd never allow it); even their damned houses were a shade of yellow that could only border on the blinding. It was those happy colours that would bring smiles to everybody's faces and that'd draw out even the sickest and crankiest people to rejoice in that little bit of burn-your-retinas-out-yellow. Those stupid, useless, daft, shallow happy colours that just wouldn't, for even a moment of his time, let him be miserable.

There was not a time of day that he could take his time and sit in his chair, closed off from any shade of amber, bisque, or lemon, and simply rest. Rest and brood and be just as wretched as he damn well pleased, without any kind of stark yellow things to interrupt him. But even that was impossible; because any time he'd enter any room, yellow would be following him; on his head and sparsely scattered on his limbs and chest, there was that colour again. Given, his was a more modest ashy kind of blond, and he thought it far more fashionable than the acidic tones that were so 'in' for hair these days, but it was still that colour. That one colour that, after years of looking at, he had become so sick of that the mere sight of it was enough to ruin his entire day – and considering he had to look in the mirror to shave every morning, the disappointment was daily.

Sometimes, though, he dreamt of other colours. Perhaps his yellow wouldn't ever go away; in fact, he was quite sure it wouldn't and that was a reality he'd have to begrudgingly accept.

But what if there were something else?

Sometimes, he dreamt of something warmer, maybe, than the yellow; something deep and dark and passionate and befitting the beds of heated lovers whose blushing skins would be so deeply contrasted by it, and yet whose ragged breaths and kisses and silly unthought-of words would match just that shade. One which would belong only in the confines of one's breast, beating erratically beside the heart and driving one to dive into risks and pleasures without even a look at consequence.

Sometimes, his mind veered off and he'd stare contentedly at the rain, imagining a colder, clearer colour than the yellow. Something that would at once befit the most transparent river-waters and the milky tropic seas in the Pacific. A colour that would be not only the bearer of sadness and of discontent but also that of calm and beauty and of utmost relief; this shade would have an unmistakeable purity to it, a virgin passion given to all without the smallest of qualms.

On other occasions, though, he contemplated something that seemed quite impossible, the utter contrast of the yellow. It'd be made of both white-hot iron and ice, a stinging thing that had the power to smooth over any wounds with only one velvety kiss. It was this shade, so royal, that would course through a general's cape as the wind blew it over entire leagues of fallen men; it was this colour, so flirtatious, of the lace that made up the stockings that his fiancée had worn when they had first made love; and yet, it was also this colour, so young and unassuming, that would run like the essential fluid through the veins of a blushing petunia. The colour was a paradox, and sometimes, he'd would berate it for being too dramatic.

And that was how Arthur Kirkland spent his days, wishing for colours; for a vivid breath of life to be sprinkled on the twisting oak tree leaves, and then a demure, soft-spoken coat to be thrown onto their trunks. For fields of flowers, all resonating in a loud concerto of pronounced and unyielding hues, each one a different sustained note from an instrument. To some, it seemed like he lived in regret and constant anger, and while they might have been at least partially right, he'd always beg to differ. The time he took to dream was his happiest; it was only a shame that when he'd wake, all the spirit and the soul would drain from his eyes, and they'd revert to their usual grey, framed sadly by iridescent yellow.

A short prompt written up a while ago that I actually ended up liking; the idea was to write about a world in which there was only another colour, and to write about the other colours without actually mentioning their names or synonyms of them. The ones Arthur thought about, if you were wondering, are red, blue, and violet (in that order).

Thank you for reading!